I got back all right. It takes two dollars and six-bits to git from Goldstone to Briggs City on the Local. But if you happen to have a little flat bottle in you’ back pocket, you ride in the freight caboose fer nothin’. I had a flat bottle. I swapped “The Lloyd Addition” fer it.

When I hit ole Briggs City, she looked all right t’ me, I can tell y’. And so did the boys. And by noon I was plumb wored out, I’d gassed so much.

Wal, I went over and sit down on the edge of Silverstein’s porch to rest my face and hands. Pretty soon, I heerd a hoss a-comin’ up the street–clickety, clickety, clickety, click. It stopped at the post-office, right next me. I looked up–and here was Macie!

Say! I felt turrible, ’cause I hadn’t slicked up any yet. But she didn’t seem to notice. She knowed they was somethin’ gone wrong though, ’fore ever I said a word. She just helt out one soft little hand. “Never you mind, Alec,” she says; “never you mind.”

My little gal!

“It means punchin’ cows fer four years at forty per, Macie,” I says to her.

“I’ll wait fer you, Alec,” she answers.

She’d gone, and I was turnin’ back towards Silverstein’s, when–I’m a son-of-a-gun if I didn’t see, a-comin’ acrosst from the deepot, one of them land-sharks! It was Porky, with that wedge-coat of hisn, and a seegar as big as a corn-cob!

Say! I duv under the porch so quick that I clean scairt the life outen six razorbacks and seventeen hens that was diggin’ ’round under it. And when I come out where the back door is, I skun fer Hairoil Johnson’s shack to borra a dif-f’rent suit of clothes offen the parson. Next, I had my Santy Claus mowed at the barber-shop.

But, when I looked in the glass, I wasn’t satisfied, ’cause I wasn’t changed enough. “What’ll I do?” I ast the barber.

“Wash,” he says.Wal, I’ll be dog-goned!–the disguise was complete!

Just then, in come Hank Shackleton. “Hank,” I says, “what do y’ think?–that fat Chicago millionaire I was a-tellin’ you of is here!”

“You don’t say so!” he answers, beginnin’ to grin. “That shore is luck!”

“How so?” ast the barber.

“Why,” I says, “just think what we can do to him!”

Hank just lent back and haw-hawed like he’d bust his buttons off. “Aw, don’t make me laugh,” he says; “my lip’s cracked!”

They ain’t no use talkin’–we fixed up a proposition that was a daisy.

“And it’ll work like yeast,” says Shackleton. “A-course, whatever I make outen it, Cupid, you git a draw-down on–yas, you do.”

“Nobody from Goldstone’ll speak up and spoil the fun, neither,” I says. “Not by a jugful! That passel of yaps down there is jealous of Briggs, and ’d just like to see her done. What’s more, they got a heap of little, mean pride, and ’d never own up they been sold.”It was shore funny, but from that very minute, and all by itself kinda, Briggs City begun to boom! Billy Trowbridge put a barb-wire fence ’round a couple of vacant lots next his house. Bergin dug a big hole behind that ole vacant shack of hisn, and buried about a ton of tin cans. Hairoil turned some shoats into a rock patch he owned and cleaned out the rattlesnakes. And all over town, sand got five times as high as it’d ever been afore.

So when my dudey friend, the real-estate feller, struck our flourishin’ city, and hired a’ empty shanty fer his office, he didn’t find no one anxious to sell him a slice of land. “Say! property’s up here,” he remarked, whilst he put down the stiff price that Bill Rawson ’d ast fer a lot. He seemed sorta bothered in his mind. (But he had to have land–to start his game on.)

“And climbin’,” says Bill, pocketin’ the spondulix. (Later on, Bill says to me, “I ain’t a-goin’ to do another lick of hard work this year!”)

Same day, here was Sam Barnes, walkin’ up and down on that acre of hisn and holdin’ to a forked stick. Wouldn’t tell Porky why, though he hinted that whenever a forked stick dipped three times, it meant somethin’ more ’n water.

“But I ain’t got the cash to do no investigatin’,” says Sam, sad-like.

Porky got turrible interested. “Say,” he says t’ Shackleton, “what you think of that land of Barnes’s?”

“Wal,” answers Hank, “I’ll tell y’: Oncet I seen another strip that looked just like hisn on top. And it was rich in gold. It was so blamed rich in the colour that when the feller who owned it (he was as lazy as a government mule)–when that feller wanted more t’bacca, ’r some spuds, ’r a piece of pig, why, he’d just go out into the yard and roll. Then he’d hike to town, and when he’d get into the bank, he’d shake hisself–good–pick up what fell to the floor, git it weighed, and the payin’-teller would hand him out what was comin’ t’ him.”

Porky peeled his eyes. (It was plain he didn’t swaller it all.) But, after talkin’ with that real-estate feller, he hunted up Sam and bought ev’ry square inch he had. “’Cause it’s dollars to doughnuts,” he says, “that Briggs City’ll grow this way.”“Wal, I don’t know,” says Sam. “Bergin is powerful strong in pollytics, and he figgers to git the Court House erected on the other side of town–where his wife’s got some land.”

The new parson and the doc showed up that same afternoon. And I reckon they liked that Court House idear, ’cause they took the north half of the Starvation Gap property straight off.

“The City Park,” they says, “should allus be next the public buildin’s.”

“The City Park,” says Buckshot Milliken, “will likely be further north, right agin the University. I know–fer the reason that they was a meetin’ of the University directors last night. Then, the Farmers’ and Merchants’ Bank is goin’ to be located facin’ the Park, and so is the Grand Op’ra House.”

Porky gave Buckshot a’ awful sharp look. But Buckshot’s a’ Injun when it comes to actin’ innocenter’n a kitten. So then the millionaire gent looked tickled (’cause, just think!–if we was excited a’ready about a boom, what a pile of trouble it’d save him and his pardners!) Wal, he waddled off and hunted ’em up. And that night they purchased ’most all of them north lots–payin’ good.

It was the next mornin’ that they got holt of ole man Sewell and bought the Andrews place. Sewell wasn’t on–he hadn’t been into town since I come from Goldstone. But the real-estate gent was used to puttin’ up a good figger by now, and the boss made a fair haul.

Right off, the Andrews chunk was laid out in fifty-foot lots. It was just rows and rows of white stakes, and when the West-bound was stopped at the deepot fer grub, I seen Bill Rawson pointin’ them stakes out to two poor ole white-haired women. “Ladies,” he says, “that’s the battlefield where Crook fit the Kiowas. Ev’ry stake’s a stiff.”

As the train pulled out, she was tipped all to one side kinda, and runnin’ on her off wheels, ’cause the pass’ngers was herded along the west side of the cars, lookin’ at that big graveyard.

When Hank’s next Eye-Opener come out, one hull side of it was covered with a map of Briggs City–drawed three mile square, so’s to take in what Mrs. Bergin had left. Under the map it said, “The left-hand cross marks the position of the West Oklahomaw Observatory, which is to be built on top of Rogers’s Butte, and the cross in the Andrews Addition marks the spot where the great Sanatarium’ll stand.” (Say! it was gittin’ to be a cold day in Briggs when somebody didn’t start a grand, new institootion!) “Why,” goes on Shackleton, in that piece of hisn, “breathin’ that fine crick-bottom air, and on a plain diet–say, of bread and clabbered milk, a sick person oughta git cured up easy, and a healthy person oughta live more’n a hunderd years.” (Wal, as far as I’m concerned, if I had to eat clabbered milk a hunderd years, I’d ruther die!)

Next thing, two ’r three of the boys got into a reg’lar jawin’-match over some property. Chub Flannagan wanted to start a new paper called the Rip-Saw. Shackleton, a-course, didn’t want he should. Right in front of that real-estate feller’s, Chub drawed a gun on Hank. And Monkey Mike had to interfere ’twixt them.

“I got a right to do what I please on my own land,” yells Chub.

“Wal, I’ll buy you’ blamed lots,” says Shackleton, “but I don’t stand fer compytition. Here, agent, what’s Chub’s block worth?”

The dude reckoned it was worth five hunderd. And Shackleton dug down like a man!

The rest of us done a turrible lot of buyin’ and sellin’ right after that–one to the other. The sheriff sold to Sam Barnes (fer a chaw of t’bacca); Bill Rawson, he sold to me (on tick); Hairoil Johnson to Dutchy, and so forth. ’R, it’d be like this: “Bet you a lot I can jump the furth’est.” “Bet you cain’t.” Then real estate ’d change hands, and the Tarantula ’d talk about “a lively market.”

A-course, the dude and Porky, and the doc and the new parson was doin’ some buyin’, too. ’Fore long, they owned all Bergin had, and Shackleton’s, and Chub’s, and Rawson’s, and Johnson’s, and mine. And they picked out a place fer the Deef, Dumb, and Blind Asylum; and named ole man Sewell fer President of the Briggs City Pott’ry works.

Pretty soon, havin’ all the land they wanted, they begun, steady by jerks, to sell each other, notice of them sales appearin’ in the Eye-Opener at two-bits apiece. Next, they got to sellin’ faster. Then, it was dawg eat dawg. Lickin’ things into a’ excitin’ pass, them lots of theirn flew back’ards and for’ards till the air was plumb full of sand. When the sun went down that never-to-be-fergot evenin’ (as the speaker allus says at a political pow-wow), ole Briggs City was the colour of mesquite. But the pockets of the punchers was so chuck full that, as the hours drug by, our growin’ city got redder ’n a section-house, ’cause the boys was busy paintin’ it. (But count me out–I had my draw-down, and I was a-hangin’ on to it.) Whilst over at the real-estate shack, them gun-shy gents was havin’ a quiet, little business talk, gittin’ ready fer they onloadin’ campaign next day.

About ten o’clock, I stopped by they shebang and knocked. When the door was opened, here they all sit, makin’ out more deeds ’n you could shake a stick at. I didn’t go in. I figgered I’d be gittin’ married soon; and no feller wants his face spotted up like a Sioux chief’s on his weddin’ day.

“Gents,” I says, “the boys sent me over to thank you all fer purchasin’ property hereabouts in such a blamed gen’rous way. And it’s shore too bad that they feel they cain’t invest. But they plan to wait a year, and buy in what you got fer taxes.”

Fer as long as you could count ten, not a’ one of ’em said a word. Then the doc stood up. “Who in thunder are you?” he ast, voice like a frog.

“Why,” I answers, “don’t you recollect me? I’m Cupid here; but, down at Goldstone, I was the owner of the Lloyd Addition.”

They jumped like they’d been stuck with a pin. “The Lloyd Addition!” they kinda hisses.

“Yas,” I goes on. “So I reckon you realise that it wouldn’t be no use fer Mister Real-Estate Agent, here, to git three-sheets-in-the-wind, and then let out his grand natu’al development secret; ’r fer our millionaire friend to go send hisself a telegram from Rockafeller. Gent’s you’ little Briggs City boom is busted.”

Say! next minute the hull quartette of ’em was a-swearin’ to oncet, so’s it sounded like a tune–nigger chords and all.

Next, Porky begun a solo. Said if they hadn’t all been plumb crazy, they’d ’a’ knowed they was a screw loose in Briggs. And now here they was stripped cleaner’n a whistle by a set of ornery cow-punchers––

I cut him short. “We know how to cure a dawg of suckin’ aigs,” I says. “We give him all he wants of ’em–red hot. Wal, you gents had the boom disease, and you had it bad. But I reckon now you’ve got just about all the land you can hole.”

They nodded they haids. It was a show-down, and no mistake, and they was plumb offen they high hoss. Blamed if I didn’t come nigh feelin’ sorry fer ’em! But I goes on, “I’m feard you-all’re just a little bit ongrateful to me–consider-in’ that I come here t’-night to help y’.”

“Help?” they says. (Quartette again.)

“Why, yas. Don’t you think, about this time, that Chicago ’d look pretty good to you?”

“Chicago!” says Porky, low and wistful, like he didn’t never expect to see the place again.

“And hittin’ the ties, fer two dudes like the agent, here, and the parson––”

“Parson be hanged!” says the last named gent, ugly as the dickens.

“I hope not,” I goes on, “but you never can tell what the boys’ll do.”The doc was standin’ up. As I said that, he come down kerplunk onto a bench, like as if a spring ’d give way in his laigs.

“Lloyd,” he says, “we–we–we’re willin’ to go, but we ain’t got no money.”

“You’re what I’d call land-poor,” I says.

“You need four tickets–wal, now, you own that Andrews chunk, don’t y’?”

“Lloyd,” says the real-estate feller, “you’ve got the dead wood on us, ole man.” He picked up one of them deeds from the table. “Git us the tickets,” he says, “and here’s the Andrews property.”

“A up-freight goes by in twenty minutes,” I says. And started fer the station.

“Lloyd!” calls Porky after me, “think you could spare us a’ extra twenty fer grub?–you don’t want us to starve, Lloyd. And–and mebbe you could use the rest of these deeds.”

I come back.

“Twenty?” I says; “I’ll make it fifty fer luck.”

They was tears in that fake parson’s eyes. “Lloyd,” he says, “if I really was a preacher, I’d pick you fer a saved man.”Later on, when I walked into Dutchy’s thirst-parlour, the boys was on hand, waitin’ patient. As they ketched sight of me, they hollered some.

“My friends,” I says, “this is where I stand treat. But it ain’t licker this tune, no, ma’am; I’m presentin’ hunderd-foot lots.” So out I drawed my little bunch of deeds and handed one to each feller. Bergin got the Observatory site and the City Park; Rawson, the University grounds; Hairoil, the Farmers’ and Merchants’ Bank block; Chub, the Court House; Sam Barnes, the spot fer the Grand Op’ra House, and Billy Trowbridge, the land fer the Deef, Dumb and Blind Asylum. Then I slid.

Ten minutes, and my pinto bronc was a-kitin’ fer the Bar Y ranch-house. Turnin’ in at the gate, I seen a light in the sittin’-room winda. I dropped the reins over Maud’s haid and hoofed it up onto the porch. And inside, there was Macie, a-settin’ in her rocker in front of the fire. On the other side was the President of the Briggs City Pott’ry Works.

“Boss,” I says, as I shook hands with him, “Boss, I’ve come fer you’ little gal.” Say! it took him quick, like a stitch in the side. “Fer my gal?” he kinda stammers.

“Why–why, Alec,––” she whispers to me.

“Sewell,” I goes on, “when I ast you fer her, a while back, you said, ‘Git a piece of land as big as the Andrews chunk.’ Wal,” (I handed out my deed) “would you mind lookin’ at this?”

“It’s yourn!” The ole man put his hands to his haid.

“Also,” I says, rattlin’ the little stack of twenties in my right-hand britches pocket, “I’m fixed t’ git some cows; fifty ’r so–a start, boss, just a start.”

“How’d you do it! Why, I’m plumb knocked silly!”

“But you’ ain’t the man to go back on you’ word, Sewell. I can take good keer of Mace now–and I want to be friends with the man that’s goin’ to be my paw.”

He begun to look at me, awful steady and sober, and he looked and he looked–like as if he hadn’t just savvied. Next, he sorta talked to hisself. “My little Macie,” he kept sayin’; “my little Macie.”

She put her arms ’round him then, and he clean broke down. “Aw, I cain’t lose my little gal,” he says. “I don’t keer anythin’ about land ’r cattle. But Macie–she’s all I got left. Don’t take her away from me!”

So that was it! (And I’d said that all Sewell keered fer was money.) “Boss,” I says, “you mean you’d like us to live here–with you?”

He come over to me, tremblin’ like he had the ague. “Would y’, Cupid?” he ast. “I’d never interfere with you two none. Would y’?”

“Aw, daddy!” says Mace, holdin’ to him tight.

“Why, bless you’ heart, Sewell,” I answers, “what do I want to live any other place fer? Mace is what I want–just Mace. And, say! you take back you’ little ole crick-bottom.”

“Got more land’n I want now.”

“Boss,”–I helt out my hand–“here’s where you git a new son-in-law, and a foreman fer keeps on cow-punch pay. Shake!”

He give one hand to Mace, and he give me the other. “Not by a long shot, Cupid!” he says. “Here’s where I git a half-pardner.”

So here I am–settled down at the ole Bar Y. And it’d take a twenty-mule team t’ pull me offen it. Of a evenin’, like this, the boss, he sits on the east porch, smokin’; the boys ’re strung along the side of the bunk-house t’ rest and gass and laugh; and, out yonder, is the cottonwoods, same as ever, and the ditch, and the mesquite, leveler’n a floor; and–up over it all–the moon, white and smilin’.

Then, outen the door nigh where the sun-flowers ’re growin’, mebbe she’ll come–a slim, little figger in white. And, if it’s plenty warm, and not too late, why, she’ll be totin’ the smartest, cutest––

Listen! y’ hear that?

That’s my little wife,–that’s Macie, now–a-singin’ to the kid!

THE END